On Saturday night, I went out with my sister and my mom. We went to a meeting. Suffice it to say that this meeting is in relation to having grown up with an alcoholic.
Anyway, my mother decided that she's no longer going, but she doesn't wish to tell me. That's ok, Mom, you don't have to.
We had a conversation after the meeting while having pie at Village Inn. My mother was, as I said, in a 'I want to kill your father slowly' mood. I'm not sure what's making her so pissy right now, but she is in full on hate mode when it comes to my dad.
During the conversation, she said how angry she was at my dad for ruining her life and ruining our lives, mine and my sister's. And during this conversation, she looked at me to see if I was going to challenge that statement.
I elected not to. Why bother? What good would it do? Besides to pour more salt on my mother's wounds? We both know that no one can ruin your life without your permission and cooperation, as my latest relationship failure demonstrated. She knows that, but like the saying goes, some people are incapable of rigorous honesty. She's one of the unfortunates mentioned in many a twelve step meeting.
I ought to know; I used to be one too. For me, and for her, it was a temporary condition, cured, for me, by that moment when the pain became too great to bear any more self deception as a survival skill. That was the moment when fantasies no longer were enough, the moment when I started to desire an acceptable reality.
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